another flood in wait
of what we keep
in our jars of clay—
another early wake
end. point. turn.
a new arithmetic has been observed—it crushes on the physical geometry we just have to learn—an ancillary construction’s hiding space—a distraction, a disgrace—a fake stir of optimism—for a scene based entirely upon pessimistic sets of codes—when discovery disrupts the guise we had formed, it disassembles all the equations we’ve ever known—the only beauty we’ve ever worn—deconstructing our place of home.
a nauseous epidemic.
anxiety laden nerves.
paranoid—and rightly so—
an underworld erected—from the trust and freedom love’s allotted us.
From the many we make few—the espionage grows and grows until it tires too—loneliness abounds, even when good hearts surround and the graphed parabolas never fail; they never fall—
self placed Landmines erupt-explode—triggered by the auxiliary education we so foolishly thought we would need to know—because of form, logic lost—a probability gambled upon, one too which the odds we thought we could beat—yet blinded by the arcs and shape—we deemed it a chance we had to take—opportunities like this are rare—amnesia of all we had simply disappears—all that was gets strained then lost— the superficial signs that led us astray—the most negative of causalities—where no one wins and the opportunity to start again—well, that die had been long since tossed—
alone again—first time since, what’s it been? Twenty-five years or so—empty house, empty home—friends grew busy, friends don’t answer their phones—all for what, all for what? Twenty-four-thirty-six-twenty-four—just numbers, random-strange—just memories—what an accomplishment—even if I chose to speak the lore—just look at me, look at me—even I wouldn’t believe a single word—strike that—I’d believe the part about the guy that’s lost it all.